The second week of farmer’s market has come and gone. We moved our stand from the interior of City Hall Park (Burlington) to the starkness of St. Paul Street for the season, and our customers have had some difficulty finding us. That market is so big now with 90 vendors, I haven’t had the opportunity to walk all of it yet!
Bad things that happened while you were away:
The kid from Dunkin’ Donuts forgot to give us our half dozen assorted, dropped our change at the drive-thru, and we were so engrossed in our own conversation and jacked up on the first frosty Coolatta/Iced Coffee of the season that we didn’t even notice until we got back home.
(I think that means we have reached the ground floor – or possibly the basement level - of middle age.)
There was a naked chicken bone laying there under the window when I picked up the fumbled Dunkin’ dollar. Who tosses a sucked dry wing on the ground after passing one courtesy garbage can, knowing they will be approaching another after receiving their order? And why were you eating what I want in my belly?
(Not enough hand sanitizer in my purse for that brief encounter – and I actually considered leaving the sketchy single where it lay – but you already know that I didn’t.)
I realized that standing on hard pavement for 6 hours in the sun is different from standing on uneven turf in the shade, and find myself more tired and achy and squint(ier) than usual after vending our farm’s wares over the weekend.
(Also, might be an age thing.)
I lost my voice for a few days from a bronchial infection or something – doesn’t matter what - but the husband seems uncharacteristically giddy.
(I’m one stone’s throw away from communicating exclusively with angry Post-its and rude hand signals.)
Someone mistook me in person for Calley Hastings from Fat Toad Farm (she is a fellow Sunday contributor to that other paper that shall not be named).
Good things to share:
Someone mistook me for Calley Hastings (20 years my junior).
Another mentioned I was “prettier in person”.
(Note to self: never change that old publicity photo, so this happens more often.)
My “Eat More Kale” merchandise arrived and is really cool to wear in public, as nearly every Vermonter knows what the phrase means, so I don’t have to explain it.
(That’s stone solid WINNING; as I currently squeak instead of speak.)
Both red and yellow-winged blackbirds have set up house in the trees in the front yard, and are keeping ravens from raiding the chicken eggs laid on pasture.
(Nature can be an awesome and surprisingly effective ally.)
The best joke at my expense over the last few days came from my husband, Dan, who said:
“Make sure you feed the cats while I’m working in the fields, because no one can hear you scream.”